The Man Who Shut Down The World
by Stuart Curien
Summary: A Deportation Center worker struggles to survive following the activation of The Sword of Damocles. I welcome any and all reviews!
1. Chapter 1

Now, I know what you're thinking. I know because it's my business to know.

The smart ones think about my infrastructure. How far it reaches, how current my reports are. Concealed ambitions, quiet alliances, that sort of thing. They think about the books on my shelves, the digital knowledge lost in the collapse, and if we even printed on paper how the most important things worked. From there it's easy to think about factories and vehicles, satellites and power grids, about the brains who could've stitched it back together but were too soft for this world.

Nobody wants to be smart anymore. Shit weighs on you.

The dumb ones think about booze, drugs and pussy, and the kind of respect you get from a gun. They think about today, not yesterday. There's an excellent chance that shitkicker you see propping up the bar, stinking of moonshine and herbal smokes, knows how to hunt and work the land. He knows, in ways a smart person never could, how to spot trouble and isn't afraid to fight.

Dumb inherited the earth. It was only a matter of time.

No matter where you fall, there's one thing we all have in common. Everyone wants to know what happened to Snake Plissken.

Plissken, yeah. Easy to remember that broadcast, it being the last one anyone ever saw. We were like pigs in shit before he pressed that button; seeing our self-righteous prick of a president humiliated before the nation. For one glorious moment, nobody even cared about the invasion force off Miami. Then everything went dark. I bet you think I had some inside knowledge, some inkling of what to do.

Would've been nice.

My mind kept skating over the enormity of what just happened, but it was too big, Teflon smooth, and I couldn't get a handhold. Instead I kept the fridge closed and went to bed. Power cut, that's all it was.

The next morning was so quiet it felt like waking up in church.

I took a cold shower, shaved, and left home with all my pass-cards and papers; as though they still meant something.

Small, gossiping groups clustered on the street. Some moved with great purpose, loading up cars with luggage and supplies, whereas others were content to just watch. Only a sadist would want to see those keys turn in the ignition, so without thinking, I just started walking. Funny thing is, it was the kind of nice day we didn't get anymore. People watched me pass by, astonished that I was going further than the next block. Skin cancer was our country's biggest killer, beating heart disease for a while now, thanks to a tardy ozone layer. Then there was the rest. Dust storms, mini-tornados, hail big enough to crack your skull. I knew that, everyone knew that, but I hadn't even checked the horizon.

Nobody walked anymore, unless they were desperate or poor.

Was Santa Clarita a nice place to live? Yeah, people really used to ask that kind of question, at least they did when I was a kid. Fast forward twenty years and even nice places jostled elbow to elbow with slums. In the space of five steps you could be enjoying the aroma of homemade stew, then filling your lungs with a one-two punch of rotting trash and stale piss. This neighborhood was boxed in by a seven foot breeze block wall, broken glass cemented onto the top of it, with steel security gates. Maybe it deterred the laziest burglars, but my place had still been turned over three times in the last two years. Which was actually pretty good.

_Safe_ was where you wanted to live, but expecting the USPF to keep you safe was like expecting a good spin in Russian roulette.

So why settle there, when it was a USPF stronghold and so close to the Deportation Center? Working at the DC was only part of it. The USPF could be many things, but here they were mundane. Mind numbing routine, wedded to a short leash, had dulled their sadism. They still meted out the occasional beating, but it was a sad spectacle; like a retired boxer hitting the bag at his old gym.

The farther from a stronghold, the more autonomy a USPF officer had, and that was where problems started.

It was only after reaching the express lanes that I realized how ill equipped I was. No food, no water, and a mosaic of broken down cars as far as the eye could see. Smoke rose from the direction of O'Melveny Park, better known as Hobo Hills. Back then, it was a ruin, and whatever had survived polluted soil was losing the battle against acid rain. A vast homeless population occupied it now, as I guess it beat squatting on the edges of the cities and risking death from a USPF officer who'd had a bad day.

Hobo Hills was a recurring topic at the DC, with more than a few goons itching to wipe it clean, but the only way to go would be mob handed, and command had yet to approve.

The cars turned a pleasant walk into something rather more real. At best, I had to weave between them. Then there were the pile-ups. Broken glass shining in the sun; a ripe stench pushing against spilled petrol. The only way past was to clamber over, and every now and then I'd get close enough to a corpse to smell the shit.

Never forgotten it.

Bet that sounds quaint. Death is a way of life these days, but back then I was a stranger to it. Oh sure, most of us had seen dead bodies from a distance. Usually homeless. But I had no idea that people soiled themselves when they went. Never heard a death-rattle. Hadn't yet found out that you can't close someone's eyes right after they die, like in the movies.

Hearing voices close by filled me with a gladness I'd never felt around other people. Hated crowds. Parties. But among the flesh and metal, they were sweet as an oasis.

It was a husband and wife. I could tell from their clothes, and the guarded way they looked at me, that the rusted piece of crap they were sat on was the most valuable thing they owned.

I had to ask. 'Does it still run?'

The guy hopped down, puffing out his overweight chest. 'None of your fucking business. Keep walking.'

I laughed. Couldn't help it. He turned red, ready to pound me flat, until I gestured at the wrecked cars on all sides. 'Where am I gonna drive it to?'

He looked confused, snorted out a laugh, then started crying.

Seemed to surprise both of us, as he threw himself back into anger. 'Walk or I'll fucking kill you, cunt!'

I held up my hands and moved on.

There were others along the way. A family who were kind enough, stupid enough, I guess, to share some of their water with me. Looked like they were on their way back from a vacation, car loaded down with suitcases and enough empty sweet wrappers to prove the trip. They weren't about to leave their luggage, hopeful of official aid soon kicking in, and I nodded along for the sake of a free drink.

I was so lost in the first cool mouthful, it took me a minute to process that there were sounds coming from a video game handheld one of the kids was lost in.

I wrestled my government issued mobile from my pocket. A 'perk' of working at the DC, as it almost guaranteed an ass kicking if anyone saw you had one. Hadn't even occurred to me to check it. Excitement turned to irritation as the display stayed dark, no matter how many buttons I pressed. Then it hit me. I'd left it charging overnight, and the voltage spike the EMP sent through the grid had gifted me a shiny paperweight.

Suddenly, I knew how scared I was; how much my muscles hurt; the way sweat pasted my shirt to my skin. The loss of that anchor brought everything into focus, in a way not even dead bodies had.

Fuck me, it was _pathetic._

I turned and flung the phone as hard as I could, hearing an expensive crack among the wrecked cars.

The girl looked up from her video-game, briefly intrigued.

'Not sure how that thing's still working,' the father said awkwardly, as though in apology.

I looked at their vehicle. Chunky four by four, one step below a Humvee.

'Partial Faraday cage and blind luck,' I said, half to myself.

'You mean other stuff could still be working?'

I blew out a breath. 'I…..ah, maybe_._ At least, replacement parts, given the right kind of building and storage container…'

It was the answer he wanted, and true enough that I could move on without feeling guilty. There was a lot more to say, to know, but it was all grim, and I didn't have time to waste arguing with someone who wasn't ready to hear it.

Half an hour later, a distant gunshot. Not USPF. Pitch was too high, and the USPF never used one bullet when fifty would do. I looked back down the highway, waited a few minutes. Apart from heat wave shimmer, and the eye snagging gleam of a hundred dead cars, there was nothing to see. No shots followed, but I wasn't really expecting any. Firearms were illegal now, and even gangs used them sparingly.

Goes to show how upside down reality had become, when that single shot spooked me more than a barrage of gunfire.

.

o0o

.

I spent the night in the passenger seat of a sports car; some sleek, black bullet that I would've one day dreamed of owning.

The day had been drawing on and I wasn't sure how much further I had to go. Nothing looked familiar. All the points I should've recognized were somehow gone or twisted into something else. Likely I was just exhausted, this being the most exercise I'd had for years, and muscle pain fought hunger pangs to see which could make me most miserable.

Resigned, I tried the door of every intact vehicle I could find. They were thinning out, as though nobody wanted to be close to the DC. Good for tomorrow's hike, bad for right now. Ironically, all those run of the mill sedans and SUVs were locked up tight, and I was on the verge of smashing a window and just making do when I found the sports car. It made me suspicious enough to peer through the windows before climbing in, half-expecting to see its owner waiting with a knife.

There was enough sunlight left to search for supplies, but the thing may as well have rolled out of a showroom. Just a plastic vial of white powder in the glove compartment. Cocaine, I guessed. You had to be a certain kind of rich not to bother hiding it.

Was I tempted? Well, let's see. Depressed, worn out, with a bottle of water and half an energy bar now my most valuable possessions. Oh yeah, I was also an IT worker in a world without electricity.

Was I tempted? Hah!

The car had rolled onto the scrub-land shoulder, and gave me a prime view of ragged chaparral and telephone lines. Still, it was more soothing than the hills to my left, with their clumps of half-dead vegetation on pale earth making me think of a sick animal's hide. After a few minutes thought, I pocketed the cocaine. It was a risk, maybe a big one, but the world would change quickly over the next few days, and drugs were always valuable to someone.

Reclining in that generous leather seat, I closed my eyes and hoped the silence wouldn't keep me awake.


	2. Chapter 2

I slept better than I should've, waking with the sun. From what I've heard since, that wasn't too unusual. We all knew what had happened, how it happened, why it happened, but our reality hadn't changed to reflect that. Like I said, it was just too big, and the government worked hard on keeping us submissive.

Taking a drink, I could already feel the car heating up, which was the only reason I dragged my sore body out of it. My stomach churned around the last half of the energy bar and I reminded myself that a human could survive for three weeks without food. A lifetime of habit railed against that logic, demanding the dull ache be squashed ASAP. I did my best to ignore it and started to walk. Maybe the next year would've been different if I'd ever been truly hungry, at least once in a while.

Probably not.

I often reflect on the kind of luck I had back then. Makes me feel shitty sometimes, because it was more than my due share. Case in point: that morning there _was_ something on the horizon. Mammatus clouds. Knowing the clouds was one way of predicting our wild weather swings, but even a layman would be wary of these. Their undersides were huge, dark and heavy. Seeing mammatus was a cue to find shelter for your car, and yourself as a second priority, before windscreens disappeared and the bonnet dented so badly you could grate cheese on it.

If you were sheltering in a car in a hailstorm, you were already in trouble. Besides, even if I could've found an unlocked vehicle, any 4x4s and SUVs were now too far behind me.

I'd reached the outskirts of San Fernando, and already longed for the mottled mountains behind me. You could see the wall from here; too close and too clearly. Even now, without the drone of helicopters on patrol, and a quiet that felt deep enough to drown in, I was convinced that someone was tracking my every movement.

I'd never seen San Fernando before the wall went up in `01, let alone before the big one hit a year earlier, but folk tell me the place had had its moments. I'd heard that President Johnson hated it because LA was a melting pot of different races and different cultures, but that does gloss over the frequent turf wars, with a police force and justice system jointly owned by criminals and conglomerates. Well, until the USPF shut down the courts, which really helped to streamline corruption.

Whatever remained of L.A on our side, from Pacoima to West Hills, seemed to exist in permenant monochrome. Any housing developments large enough had been re-purposed into secure compounds for the army of staff needed to run the DC, and to house the literal army of the USPF. Any neighborhoods too modest to be rolled into these grim enclaves were cut adrift. I think a determined few still lived in them, but those who could afford to had just boarded up and left for good.

The compounds were sold as gated communities to any would be employees, but in reality they were concrete and razor wire forts with few friendly barbecues. My lack of family meant that, when I said I wanted to live in Santa Clarita, a stern Housing Allocator hadn't protested. She informed me that it was single workers who were responsible for the bad reputation of the compounds, because those with families could make the best of any situation. It was single people who always wanted more_._ Bullshit of course, but by then I'd sat through endless hours of interviews and forms, so looked suitably contrite on behalf of all single people in the hopes of moving things the fuck along.

It had been intended that the rest of the area would comprise of government housing for the poor, at least President Johnson promised as much to those concerned at the formation of another prison island, another DC, another wall. By the time his wall went up, and the housing never appeared, few seemed to remember the promise. I think our nation's nihilism meant that few believed it had ever really mattered.

As a result, odd reminders of before still lingered. Luxury housing, already dilapidated before the quake, sealed with metal shutters but otherwise left to decay. Bars, strip clubs, and gambling dens, all of which which had continued to do good business until word reached Johnson's ears and a reluctant USPF stamped them out. These places were periodically checked, so squatting was dangerous, but I figured my government ID might mean more to a USPF officer than it would to a hailstone. So I left the express lanes and made for one of those reminders; an RV park now stood where no-one would ever pass by.

In the time it took to get there, all light had bled from the day.

I didn't have long.

Not much was left. The toilet block might've been sturdy enough, but I dreaded the state of it. There were a handful of abandoned RVs on the bald earth and shingle, their chassis' beaten so badly that the steel was punched right through in places.

I hesitated, lost, until the first chunk of hail smacked off the ground. Then I ran.

Tiny, traditional style cabins were dotted around the park, and I took them in quickly. Three were burnt out shells, another looked like it had been hit by a car. Still others had collapsed roofs, broken windows, wood dark with rot. There was one, its foundation clumsily shored up, windows boarded and roof reinforced. But too far away, and over open ground.

I changed my mind as hail began to fall.

Those first dozen hits were lazy Sunday throws, two kids lobbing a ball back and forth, before someone turned on the pitching machine. A sharp crack to the knuckles, like I'd driven them into concrete, then fire across my arms and legs. The cabin didn't seem to be getting any closer, and as fire bloomed into numbness I couldn't be certain my legs were still moving. What must've been a meteor sized piece hit my head, and for a second everything went black, but an ice-pick of pain skewered my brain and kept me conscious.

Somehow I got there, because the next thing I remember is waking up half in, half out of the cabin door, legs numb from the hail pummeling them while I was passed out.

Once my battered body was inside, I sat with my back against the door and cried.

Partly pain, but mostly it was the sudden unfairness of the world. This wasn't a place I knew how to navigate anymore, and there was no doubt in my mind that it would kill me. The hail was coming in waves now, seconds of silence then _DRUMDRUMDRUMDRUM_ on that patchwork steel roof, exploding my headache every time.

'Let it all out. I understand.'

I froze, tensing for an attack under cover of the next downpour. Nothing came and I shifted a little to the right, fumbling for the door.

'I wouldn't do that. Maybe this'll help.'

A small flame sparked, dipping to the floor where it doubled in size and threw out a muddy orange pool of light. I made out a huddled figure; small, gimlet eyes, mess of hair and beard. We watched each other, unable to speak until the next lull came around.

'You didn't wipe your feet' the vagrant said, nodding towards the door. I stared back, too scared to speak. Our candle flickered, and as the hail swallowed his laugh all I could make out was a shaking mass of patchwork clothing.

'Sorry' I managed, and he spread his huge, filthy hands, palms up, in what I hoped was a shrug.

I took a moment to check for anyone else. A sleeping bag was spread out in the corner, two books beside it. Three plastic cans of what I hoped was water were stacked on a sink unit, along with some pans and cooking utensils. Someone had blocked off the hallway with a sheet of plywood, and I wondered at that for a moment.

The vagrant saw my interest and pointed at the roof. 'Hard enough keeping this bit up. Abandoned the back rooms a while ago.'

Still easing, the hail gave us longer periods to talk. Something I wasn't looking forward to.

'Name's Fagan,' he said. Must've been a nickname.

'Matt,' I replied.

Fagan scrutinized me, my clothes in particular.

'You're a bit off course,' he sniffed.

'Santa Clarita,' I said.

Fagan grunted at that. 'And not driving.' He became thoughtful for a moment, 'Come to think of it, haven't heard a car all morning.'

'You don't know about the pulse?'

'The what?'

I wondered if Fagan's life would be that different with the knowing. He struck me as self-sufficient, but what kind of opportunities might he see now? The thought of him using me for food or fun, safe in the knowledge that the USPF were too occupied to care, suddenly felt very real.

After a moment's hesitation, I gave him the cliff-notes.

'So that explains the crash.'

'What?' I said.

Fagan pulled a roll-up out of his pocket and lit it from the candle. His hands were shaking a little. He puffed out a spicy, bitter gust that smelt like sagebrush mixed with a few flakes of tobacco.

'Passenger jet,' he said, drawing on the roll-up before speaking again. 'Hit the park last night. Carved-..'

Fagan coughed, wiping at his eyes. 'Carved through Hobo Hills. Fire spread to whatever could burn.'

I went to speak then thought better of it. All my questions seemed pointless somehow.

He guessed at them anyway. 'I got close enough to see the fuselage. Didn't need to see any more. They got their business, I got mine.'

Seemed impossible that I hadn't heard it go down.

'Hail's stopped,' Fagan said. 'You should go.'

I numbly obeyed, realizing he'd seen more than the fuselage and was just about holding together. The air was crisp, usual after a hailstorm but it wouldn't last long, and as Fagan's cabin door closed behind me I took big lungfuls to try and clear my head. Hailstones choked the world, some of them big as tennis balls. I picked one up and rolled it between my hands, needing that painfully cold anchor to reality right then.

No more smoke rose from Hobo Hills. Just like Johnson's god to put the fire out with a million hammers.


	3. Chapter 3

The hailstones melted quickly as they'd come, eager to escape responsibility for whatever had been belted or broken. I was sad to see them go, as now there was just concrete, decay, and another jumbled mass of vehicles ahead of me. A truck trailer had fishtailed across several lanes, probably one of the many deliveries made to the bunker under the DC – Firebase One. I took a minute to rest in its shade, sitting on the concrete divider that separated Interstate-5. The sun was back and always seemed worse after a hailstorm.

My head felt cold where the hailstone had hit it. That probably wasn't good. My legs felt anything but.

There were no families among the cars, as I guessed they'd either headed back to one of the compounds or sought help at the DC. The Sylmar compound was off to my left somewhere, but thankfully a high wall that side of I-5 blocked it from view. I was really missing the helicopters now. Without them; the cars; the trucks; or the hum-vees; there was a painful sense of expectation, and I felt like yelling just to try and pierce it.

I thought of how many times I'd prayed for quiet in my life, and managed to smile.

_Don't think yourself to pieces._

My mom had told me as much whenever I lost myself in idle, or panicked contemplation of the great mysteries of life. The older I got, the more I realized it was good advice. Take smoke breaks with the imponderables but don't move in with them.

It was then that I did hear something. The trudge of boots. Too ordered and uniform to be anything other than USPF. I stood up, dusted myself off, and rounded the trailer with my hands raised. About fifty assault rifles snapped up to cover me, from USPF troops scattered across both lanes of the I-5. I held my breath as one stepped forward.

'Identification,' he snapped, voice muffled by his helmet.

I was so used to that request that being scared shitless didn't even matter. Muscle memory kicked in and I smoothly lifted the ID badges out of my pocket.

He snatched them off me to study. Difficult to tell what was going on under that visor, but a minute later he called out: 'Lieutenant!'

A man wearing dark grey combat armor emerged from between the cars, almost identical to a standard grunt unless you knew what to look for. That much was intentional, as the USPF was one of the very few generously funded arms of the government and officers could earn good money. Command didn't want them taken as hostages for a payout, or targeted out of sheer spite. There were a lot of desperate people out there.

Plus, ever since President Johnson took over, brain drain was a problem, and it was getting increasingly difficult to find anyone _fit_ to be a superior officer in the USPF. If they could, I bet they would've just lowered the entry requirements. Unfortunately, a crime-rate in excess of 500%, and that was just the official figure, actually needed capable commanders.

The Lieutenant took one look at me and signaled the others to lower their weapons. He flipped between my IDs.

'Mr...Davis. Network Technician. Where you headed?'

'Work' I said.

That tinted visor stared, waiting for the punchline. 'Fuck do we need with a Network Technician?'

'I'm also good with electronics,' I replied feebly.

There was a long silence before he spoke again: 'Son. I'm going to remove my helmet, simply so you can appreciate the look on my face.'

He lifted the black dome with a sigh of relief, scratching at sweat soaked hair. The guy was middle-aged and looked like he'd slept two hours in the last two days. 'So is it heatstroke, Davis, or do you really not know what an EMP is?'

'I do,' I said, feeling more confident now. 'Whatever went off two days ago was very impressive, but there'll be exceptions.'

The Lieutenant tilted his face to the sun and closed his eyes. 'The point. Before I beat you to death.'

'Right,' I said quickly. 'Concrete offers some protection to an EMP, but metal is best. Firebase One was built using a shitload of both. The major systems may still be offline, maybe for good, but that place will be full of accidental Faraday cages. Some of the stuff in those'll be useful, and I can help fix it.'

I blew out a breath as I waited for his reaction.

He kept his face turned up, eyes closed. 'I can tell when someone's bullshitting, and what you're pedaling has the whiff of it, but... I'm not gagging either.'

The Lieutenant lowered his head and stared at me. 'Don't suppose you've seen Snake Plissken?'

I wondered if he was joking. 'Uh, no. Came in from Santa Clarita. All I've seen are some families sticking with their cars.'

'Pity. Guess a Network Technician would tell me the truth, too. What with him ruining your livelihood.'

'Mmm,' I said, giving my best fuck you smile.

The Lieutenant turned to the man next to him,'Moving out.'

That order was then blared to the rest of the grunts, who marched past me without a second look. Within minutes, they were just boot-steps fading into the distance.

'Best of luck,' I muttered.

The further I walked, the more USPF I saw. Like a wave rolling between abandoned buildings, they shook steel security screens, checked block locks on roller shutters, and dealt bruised ribs and black eyes to any vagrants, in between asking some questions. I think it dawned on me then that despite the devastating bait and switch Plissken pulled on Johnson, the President still didn't respect him. This particular snake had just slithered for the nearest hole. So search the holes. Johnson was very much a black and white kind of guy. Shades of grey were what the LA and Manhattan islands were for.

It was getting dark by the time I got close to the DC, though time had an elastic quality now. The molten pain of my legs made me feel every moment, yet somehow big chunks were still missing.

I heard the crowd before I saw it, then I was joining a press of bodies, their voices melding into senseless babble. Diving in was like riding a river of elbows. They managed to find every tender spot. I slid from requests to demands to just yelling at the top of my lungs, putting any strength I had left into kneeing, shoving, and forcing my way through. Something blunt and smooth pounded the side of my head, my jaw, my back, then I was crashing into chain-link. There was a weak, muddy orange light the other side of the gate that reminded me of Fagan's lamp. It glinted off an assault rifle, the barrel close enough to poke me in the eye, while a guard yelled at me to step back.

Hanging off the chain-link, I realized I could barely speak and tried to wrestle the ID cards from my pocket. Only my arm had gone numb and I fumbled, losing them in the darkness. With timing so bad it seemed almost divine, it was at that moment that the floodlights exploded into life.

They had power.


	4. Chapter 4

The crowd was stunned into silence for a moment, then surged forward as one.

Looking back, I don't think there was anything personal about it. They'd just had a taste of hope, and hope makes you stupid. Still, when that mass of stupid flesh crushed me into the gate, I wanted bullets to push back. Without a working megaphone, all the USPF could do was yell and wave their rifles, but nobody gave a shit.

'Warning shots?' I was close enough to hear one of the guards say.

Mashed against the chain-link, I couldn't move my arms, but looking down saw my ID cards under someone's foot. A young blonde woman, smartly dressed, with makeup starting to run under sweat and tears. I tried to make her understand, I really did, but all she could focus on was the pressure of the crowd and wouldn't stop screaming.

'Negative,' the guard's CO shot back. 'Get the shit sprayer!'

I braced myself against the gate, surged back, and in that second of breathing room smashed my fist into the woman's face. That one action turned the crowd. Half of them wanted my blood, but for the other half it was like I'd let their nastiest instincts out to play. All I cared about was that it let me stamp down on the ID cards and flick them under the gate.

It was hopeless. The crowd drowned out anything I could shout at the guards, and my arms were pinned again. Fights had broken out, with more than one punch finding the back of my head. By that point, they may as well have been a massage. I was too numb to feel anything anymore. The guards had wheeled up a water cannon, and I knew my day was about to get much worse.

Being friends with a DC guard had allowed me to experience 'Musk' once before, and left me with nothing but the desperate hope I'd never experience it again.

I took a deep breath and knotted my fingers into the chain-link.

'Cut the cheese!' the CO yelled.

A jet of cold, cloying liquid washed over us. For a split second, my brain registered it as refreshing, then my nose caught up. I gagged, turned my head away. Tried to ignore the air burning in my chest. The crowd broke into huddled, retching figures, shoving and trampling each other. Some lashed out like they were fighting for their lives. You could power through Musk, but not without good reason, and never the first time.

I took a breath before my lungs exploded.

Now, bear in mind, the country already stank. Which means Musk had to be extra foul. What reached down my throat was an open sewer; rotting meat and stagnant water; clothes lived in for years; something so noxious and foul that it had to be poison. I wish I could say it was an iron will that kept me stuck to that fence, but muscle spasm was more likely. I coughed so hard my head pounded, and the world dissolved into a watery haze.

'Hey, congrats buddy. You made it through. Here's your reward.'

I turned, seeing the blur of a guard raising his rifle butt, then was smashed unconscious with professional ease.

.

o0o

.

I was expecting a thunder-burst of pain to be wake me up, but came round to the feeling of cottony numbness. Fluorescent lights snapped at my eyes, so I concentrated on other senses. The mattress was good enough to sleep but not linger on. Government comfortable, as my co-worker Louis might say. Faint smell of antiseptic and I could hear the murmur of a PA system in the distance. My arm felt like it was caught on something, so I squinted down and found it connected to an IV drip next to the bed.

All of it seemed oddly distant, like I was watching or listening to a recording.

I tried to speak and almost choked, which at least caused the medic to appear.

Couldn't remember his name, but from my introduction to Firebase One I knew he was a hard-ass. Adjusting the bed so I was sitting up, he popped a couple of pills in my mouth, tilted water down my throat, and said 'You are one sorry looking son of a bitch.'

'I want a second opinion,' I croaked.

He snorted, producing a pen-light and shining it into my eyes. This close to me, his white crew-cut caught the fluorescents like a halo. 'You've got a concussion, most likely. Normally, I'd pack you off to the hospital for a CT scan, but things aren't normal. Can't offer you much rest, either. Malloy is losing his shit at the network being down, so he'll want you on it ASAP. I'll check on you when I can, if things aren't too bad here.'

I nodded to the water and he gave me another drink.

'Any good news?'

He ignored that. 'Bad bruising all over your body, so you'll be walking like you've shit your pants for the next few days. You also have heatstroke and some of the worst sunburn I've seen in a while. The saline drip should take care of your dehydration, and the co-codamol I've given will help with any pain. There's a bottle of moisturizer on the side, take it when you go and keep your skin from turning into parchment.'

I finally spied the name-tag on his fatigues, "Miller", as he looked at me and sighed.

'What the hell were you thinking walking here? Without even any sunscreen?'

'I wasn't thinking,' I said, and those words brought the sheer stupidity of the past forty-eight hours into sharp focus.

Miller disconnected the drip, removed the catheter from my arm, and taped a cotton ball over the puncture wound in one smooth set of motions. 'Doubt you were. Psychological shock, most likely. Should've seen how relieved everyone in here was when the power came back on. Embarrassing. Ask me, all we've done is buy some time.'

I lifted the blankets, looking down at a medical smock. 'My clothes?'

He gave a hoarse chuckle. 'Are covered in Musk. I can try and get them back before they hit the incinerator, if you'd like?'

'I'll pass.'

'There's some clothes on the seat next to your bed. Standard USPF uniform, and I have to help you into it. So I guess neither of us is happy.'

After Miller bent and shoved me into the uniform, he handed me a container of pills; the moisturizer; a steel walking stick; my recovered ID cards; and a pair of chunky plastic sunglasses. Thankfully the one thing USPF fatigues weren't short of was pockets.

'You'll have problems with bright lights and noises for the next few days. Wear those whenever you can. These are more co-codamol. Take two every four hours as you need them. Don't just nod. Say it back to me.'

'Two every four hours as I need them,' I repeated.

'Oh, and maybe you could explain this.'

Miller showed me the plastic vial of cocaine.

My stomach dropped `till it was level with my balls. I held up a hand as if he already had a gun on me. 'It's..uh..'

'Immediate deportation is what it is,' Miller said, glaring at me. 'So _explain_.'

'I found it on the way here. In the glove-box of some rich guy's car. I…I didn't know what I'd find when I got to the DC. Had no idea we'd actually have power. So I took it for barter.'

He said nothing, kept staring.

'I'm a network tech, for fuck's sake!' I blurted. 'What the hell else was I going to trade out there?'

Miller took my defense and silently turned it over. Scrutinized it in a way that hurt more than anything I'd felt that day. He looked me up and down like a farmer assessing livestock, and I really did feel the world was destined to break me in half. Miller must've felt so too, as he slowly lifted his hand off the butt of his pistol, balled it into a fist, and somehow resisting driving that fist into my face.

'We agree on one thing,' he said, with the taut calm that only comes when you're really angry. 'That soon enough all your smarts might not count for shit. Take it. I never saw it.'

Miller held the vial out, and as I was taking it said: 'Thank me and I'll break your neck.'

I shut my mouth, nodded, then turned and limped to the door. 'One more thing.'

He looked ready to break my neck regardless, 'Jesus, what now?'

'Can I use the VR interface?'

He was thoughtful for a moment, then shook his head. 'I wouldn't recommend it.'

'And if Malloy insists?'

Miller gave a humorless smile. 'Anyone would think you just started working here. I said I wouldn't recommend it, not that you shouldn't do it.'


End file.
